It wasn't until my father was dying that my family and I discovered the true value of Dad's peculiar obsession.
By Jennie Scotcher
I am sitting quietly by my father's bedside, gently holding his hand. Wide-eyed and disbelieving, I watch as his lungs rise dramatically – in, out, in, out – an artificial respirator filling them with air. The rushing air and the clicking of the machine are the only sounds in the tiny room.
It is 1am and my mother, sister and I have been by his bedside for more than 14 hours. My sister Mandy comments wryly that Dad has never been so quiet in his life: his monologues and exaggerated stories are legendary.
We all laugh nervously, then set about attending to the things we think are important.
I trim my father's eyebrows: they have always been unruly and I often tease him about how they make him look like an owl. In her naturally authoritative manner, Mandy demands cotton wool, dampens it and wipes the dry, salty marks from around his eyes. Mum combs his hair and strokes his forearm. "My lovely man," she says, over and over.
Then they come: four medical staff in green surgical gowns, their faces hard and grim. They are here to take my father away. Although we have been waiting hours for this moment, now that it has arrived, I desperately want to lie in their path, scream in protest, and stop the inevitable. But, of course, I do nothing.
The simple fact is my father has suffered a massive brain haemorrhage. He complained of a headache and neck pain when he woke at 6.30 that morning. My mother could see it was serious and asked if he wanted her to call a doctor. "Ambulance," he replied. Mum held his hand and kept him calm while they waited for help to arrive. "I love you, Anne," he told her. They were the last words he spoke.
There had been no sign my dad would end up like this. No warning at all. He was fit and healthy. He ran an organic fruit and vegetable nursery employing people with learning difficulties. He was active and full of life. The day before, he'd been on a motorcycle rally with his friends. He had just turned 59.
When Mandy and I arrived at the hospital, Dad was in a small surgical room, attached to every conceivable piece of machinery.
My mother and sister, both nurses, understood the diagnosis as soon as it was made. But, naively, I thought he would just wake up. Even when the doctor explained to me that Dad's brain had died and was no longer capable of running his body, I remember looking athim and thinking, Everything else seems to be working OK – can't you just fix it?
But no medical procedure could revive this lovely man, husband, father and grandfather. There was no hope. I had to face the fact that Dad was gone for good and there was nothing more we could do. Then I remembered.
Dad had been a blood donor for years. It first began when he drove Mum to the local clinic to give blood. He had no intention of donating his own (he was terrified of needles) but it turned out Mum was anaemic, so they tested him instead and his blood was just fine. His distress was alleviated only by the cup of tea and biscuits afterwards! Eventually, he overcame his fear of needles and became a regular contributor to the blood bank: three times a year. He fervently believed his donation would make a difference. Recycling blood seemed a logical thing to do.
In fact, Dad abhorred waste of any kind: he was the ultimate recycler, always looking for bargains and free items he could convert into something useful. He loved op shops and garage and car-boot sales. He even eyed up the contents of skips. Growing up, we had all sorts of recycled objects around our home. He once used the glass window from an old washing machine as a fruit bowl. Old drawers retrieved from a skip became a bookcase. Even cassette tapes abandoned on the side of the road were converted into bird scarers.
"When I die, recycle whatever you can of me and put the rest on the compost," he would joke. But, deep down, we knew he was serious. My dad carried an organ donor card in his wallet for 20 years. It was faded and curled at the edges, but it was important to him.
Back at the hospital, Dad's body was being kept alive for one reason only: to give the organ transplant team time to make arrangements. His organs had to be matched; patients, families, hospitals, transport and staff had to be prepared; paperwork had to be filled out. The whole process took eight hours.
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